more looked interested in getting better acquainted.
I really didn’t have time for frivolity, though he seemed pleasant enough and could be a source of valuable information. “Thanks so very much,” I said, rising and putting out my hand.
“No problem. Call me if I can help.” His hand lingered on mine two seconds too long.
A moment of vulnerability? I decided to try a feminine wile—one I rarely use because it’s an unattractive alternative. I put a plaintive, pleading note in my voice. “Are you sure you don’t have any more information on the Petrovich murder? I have to write a story, you know.”
Jason paused for a nano-second before he shook his head. “Nope. I’m sorry.” He did look sorry, but again, I may have misjudged him.
Roberts escorted me back to the watchful Marine, who let me out the door as cautiously as he’d let me in. Many groups in the Middle East harbor hostility toward America and its obvious representatives. The Embassy was clearly spooked.
In retrospect, I should have been, too.
CHAPTER 26
There are plenty of remedies for the evil eye. You can either spit, or say Mashallah, or—if you can get hold of a piece of the dress or hair of him who has the eye—you can smoke it and pass it three times round in a circle, over an incense burner, for instance. It is quite easy to tackle.
Freya Stark, A Winter in Arabia
I climbed into the only taxi sitting outside the Embassy and directed the driver to return to the Dar al-Hamd. Only later did I think it was a little strange that one should be right there, where most taxis are not allowed to park. The shiny black car behind it started up as we did. Probably diplomats venturing out.
In the taxi, I thought about Michael. I guess the Embassy would have the body by now and be sending it back to someone. To a wife or ex-wife? To his mother? Would an anonymous star go up at the wall at CIA headquarters in Langley honoring those agents who had died in service? Was that why Jason Roberts didn’t want to talk about him? What had Michael Petrovich’s mission been, really?
In addition to Michael, Halima haunted my mind. I needed to see her, find out what was going on. But how could I do that? Telephoning hadn’t worked. Friends of Yemen was closed.
Traffic was frustrating today, but we made our way through streets starting to clog with the noon rush. In Sana’a, that’s when everyone heads home to have a big lunch and then chew qat. My taxi driver had been uncharacteristically quiet for one of his profession, probably trying to get home for his own lunch.
Creeping along, we had come only as far as the northern gate to the Old City, Bab Sha’ub. On a whim, I thrust some money at the driver and asked to be put down.
He looked unhappy—more unhappy than he should have—but traffic was stalled and I opened the door and got out. I needed lunch and it was high time for my tête-à-tête with Nello. What would be his take on the Petrovich murder? And possibly, just possibly, he knew something about Halima.
I entered Bab al Sha’ub. I was starving. Nerves had something to do with it. So did forgetting to eat breakfast after finding Michael’s body this morning.
I hadn’t thought this morning I’d ever want to eat again, but the smell of warm crusty hubz being baked in the brick firin tempted me to stop en route. A young man pulled the bread out on a flat wooden paddle. Unable to resist the delectable smell, I bought a heavy little square loaf and exchanged a smile with the young baker.
As I did, I glanced back. One of the men in the sorghum patch last evening stood quietly in the background. The thin man with the scar. He’d chatted with the inscrutable Brit.
I shivered in the hot sun. The bread grew heavier.
I had five mystery people to wonder about now, though I’d barely arrived: The Brit, the Blonde, the Sheikh of the Souq with the BMW, Scarface, and the Face in the Window. Well, six, if you count the Corpse. Forgive me, Michael. I didn’t mean to sound crass. Number seven would be whoever murdered Michael. Or maybe that was someone I’d already met?
And I would never know what Michael Petrovich had wanted to speak with me about.
Wait. My paramount mystery and my whole reason for coming lay with Halima. Murder could not deter me from the mission.
CHAPTER 27
In Arabic some things are said or written twice, the second word there to ensure that the right choice of meaning is made for the first, and vice versa. A man is just and fair-minded, a woman brave and courteous, a judge has intuition, insight, discernment in the ways of men.
Eva Sallis, The City of Sea Lions
I headed for Nello’s café on al-Zubeiri Street, on the edge of the Old City. Stomach growling, I crumbled off the end of the loaf of hubz as I walked, chewing surreptitiously to not be rude in public.
The bread was wonderful, but I stopped nibbling. Nello’s place was near. There’s nothing like pasta to settle the soul.
As I entered the small front door of the Caffe d’Italia, I took a quick look over my shoulder. Scarface was behind me! Was he following me? This time I tried to meet his eyes. He looked right past me and walked on down the street, fitting in with every other futha-clad pedestrian.
I heaved a sigh of relief to find Nello wiping his hands on a spotless apron as he came from the kitchen. “Hello!” I shouted.
He didn’t say a word, but came around to give me a bear hug. Then he kissed my hand.
We both had tears in our eyes. “It’s a little late for lunch,” I said, when he gestured to one of the red and white checked tablecloths.
“It is never too late for lunch,” corrected Nello. “Not for Elizabeth. Not for an old friend.” His words were balm to my turbulent day. A Sprite can containing white wine appeared on the table. Bless the man! Nello poured it into a coffee cup for me. Then he told the cook to make zuppa ala paesana, made from the delicious little potatoes and green beans grown in fields around Sana’a.
As he returned to the kitchen to oversee the creation, I thought back to all the nights I had gathered with other reporters at Nello’s, whether the SCUD sirens went off or not. Nello acquired wine and Red Label Scotch from bootleggers who brought it across the Red Sea from the free port of Djibouti. The forbidden nectar was poured into soda bottles for respectability, though everyone, including the police, knew what they contained. I suspected Nello contributed plenty of Scotch to the police to ensure this oversight.
Obviously, today, murder had to be the first topic. Michael and I had eaten at Nello’s just yesterday! “I suppose you heard,” I began.
“Ah, yes. Petrovich. Dead. I know.” He looked at me keenly, probably trying to figure out how much this had upset me.
“I was sure you would.” I spoke hesitantly but met Nello’s eyes to show there were no secrets here. “I just met him on the plane coming here. What do you know about him? I gather he’d been to Yemen several times before.”
Nello held up one finger, and disappeared for a moment into the kitchen. When he came back, he had a basket of fresh-baked bread and a cruet of olive oil. We couldn’t delve into really juicy gossip without sustenance.
